


Heels

by thealphagate_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-29
Updated: 2006-03-29
Packaged: 2019-02-02 00:45:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12716304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealphagate_archivist/pseuds/thealphagate_archivist
Summary: Sam has a pair of f**k me shoes and she's not afraid to use them.





	Heels

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the archivists: this story was originally archived at [The Alpha Gate](https://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Alpha_Gate), a Stargate SG-1 archive, which began migration to the AO3 in 2017 when its hosting software, eFiction, was no longer receiving support. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are this creator and it hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Alpha Gate collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/thealphagate).

  
Author's notes: Pairing is Sam/McKay.  


* * *

She's wearing fuck me shoes. She likes the way they look, likes the way the curve of the heel accentuates her ankle, how the height of them make her calves look slim. She likes the colour; black, dark as midnight, uncompromising. Sinful.

There's no doubting what they are. They scream of lust and need and raw sexuality, things she hasn't thought of in connection with herself for so long. It's liberating and she likes it.

He'll like them. He'll get the message immediately. They aren't subtle but then neither is he. His version of romance is that of the schoolyard. The sublimation of dipping the pigtails of the girl you like in the inkwell, insulting them, knocking their books out of their hands as you walk by. Hit the girls to make them cry.

This girl hits back.

She suspects he likes that too.

Her stockings are black too, sheer and impractical and she smoothes them down, loving the way they feel underneath her newly painted fingertips. She should have gone for scarlet, she supposes, but it's not her. Plus she hasn't gone that extra mile for false nails either, and scarlet calls for talons, long and curved not her short, neatly trimmed and practical sort.

She's gone for blue, pale and shimmery instead. Traditionally girlish where she is not.

She glances in her mirror, catches a glimpse of her shadowed eyes below soft bangs. She looks good. She feels good. She thinks that she's supposed to feel soft, feminine. Desirable. She doesn't.

She feels powerful.

She loves it.

No, on reflection she's wrong about the desirability, or lack thereof. She does feel desirable, but it's a different sort of desirability than she's used to. It's not a safe desirability. It's not a passive desirability, the desirability of an object, of something to be longed for from afar. She's been there, done that and has the memories to prove it. She's bored with it. She's bored with the politeness of it all, the soft-spoken voices, the touches in the small of her back, the light flirting. She's bored with the safety of it, even though in truth it's never safe. Not in her line of work. She has a habit of leaving the polite men behind her to their fate and fate isn't always kind. She also has a habit of never getting beyond the light flirting to anything sweaty and satisfying. She's definitely bored of that. She likes to be worshipped as much as the next girl but she's had enough of being worshipped from afar. She wants to be worshipped up close and personal, sweaty, sordid worship, the kind that comes with teeth and claws. Primal and savage and cruel. If she's to be a goddess she wants to be one of the old sort, not the washed out, sanitised modern version with capped teeth and a plastic smile, and an ever-renewing hymen.

Sometimes she swears it's been so long hers has grown back.

She once told Janet, years ago, that she felt like 'the girl' and hated it, that she wanted to be one of the guys. She takes it back. She's never going to be one of the guys, sweet as they are, but somewhere along the line she stopped being 'the girl' too. She became something else, something desexed and androgynous. The Colonel stopped making jokes about how she really needed to get out more when they both knew he meant go out on dates, get laid, do normal 'girl stuff'. She sometimes thinks that he started flirting with her simply because no one else was. Daniel stopped asking what her plans were, assuming she would be working late every night just as he did.

Teal'c never asked. She suspects that's because he slotted her into some strange category of his own very early on as a way to deal with a female warrior when he came from a culture that had none. He's the only one, however, who still acknowledges that she's a woman in spite of that, and a desirable one too even if it's in his subtle and understated way. He's the only one that sees her as something other than another body in fatigues.

Sometimes she wonders if the Colonel and Daniel see her at all. Sometimes she knows they don't. Sometimes she believes they think she's blind, or so asexual that she can't see what's under her nose. It used to irritate her but now it amuses her. They must think her asexual indeed if they believe she can't see the way that the tension sings between them, the way they flirt and fight and fuck around with each other when it's obvious that it's just a prelude to fucking for real.

She wants that kind of passion but she doesn't want it from either of them.

She's got it now. The same kind of in your face, snide insults and jockeying for position passion and heat. It amuses her that they don't see it, that Daniel offers sympathy after she's been snarled at, that the Colonel gets a look of thunder on his face and a kick ass glint in his eye. She gets firm with them and they think that it's because she wants to deal with it on her own, respecting her wishes and backing off.

They can't see that in reality she likes it, wants it, craves it. They can't see that in a way it's a reflection of what they have between them because they've stopped thinking of sex and her in the same breath. They can't see what's under their noses and they think that she's the oblivious one.

The cosmic humour of it makes her giddy.

The truth of the matter is that she loves it. She loves the power of it, the way they can argue and fight and snap at each other, the way they never sheath their knives. She loves the way he snaps his fingers under her nose, the way he yells at her, his hands waving around and pushes her, always pushes her, makes her fight and snarl and snap back and damn well live. She loves the challenge of it, the way that she has to be on top of her game, at her best to outwit him. And she does outwit him, every time.

She loves that most of all. She has the power over him and he acknowledges that with every breath. She can derail him with a look, catch him off balance with a smile and yet he's never weak, always comes back for more.

It's the kind of worship she wants. Not for her the penitent, pale disciples who fall at her feet. She wants one who will spit and snarl at her, have to be dragged, kicking and cursing to her altar and yet will still fall to his knees in front of her gladly, licking her feet if she commands him to with a sarcastic and bitter tongue. She wants someone who fights as well as he fucks.

She wants MacKay.

She straightens up, looks in her mirror again, not hiding anymore. She hasn't dressed yet, and stands there in her underwear; fuck me bra, fuck me panties and fuck me stockings to go with her fuck me shoes, her hair a golden halo around her head. She likes what she sees and knows he will too. He'll fall to his knees in front of her without her saying a word then tell her she's a devil and an angel all rolled into one. She smoothes her hands over more than her stockings this time, starting first at her neck and then down over the sensitive mounds of her breasts, her flat stomach, her smooth, satiny thighs.

She's bored of waiting. She doesn't want food, the dinner in a nice restaurant he's planned out for their first 'date'. She wants him over here, wants to ride him hard and put him away wet. She wants to be a guy again, and yet she doesn't. She wants to have a guy's attitude to sex and a woman's wiles. And he'll let her. He'll love it. He'll fight and he'll snarl and he'll fuck like an angel and then he'll leave when she tells him to, a sarcastic curl on her lip. And he'll worship her, live for her, die for her, do as she tells him and fight her every step of the way.

But first he'll fall to his knees and kiss her fuck me shoes.

She reaches for her phone and summons him.

And, like any disciple, he comes.

The End


End file.
